


the dog days are over, the dog days are done

by pyladic



Series: prompts [2]
Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy, Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
Genre: F/M, Gift Fic, Jealousy, M/M, Pining, Sibling Rivalry, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, if it's not saccharine it's not right
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-26 20:47:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17148839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pyladic/pseuds/pyladic
Summary: When Anatole finds out exactly who it is that his sister is taking to bed, he's not upset.Really. He's not.





	the dog days are over, the dog days are done

**Author's Note:**

  * For [onetrueobligation](https://archiveofourown.org/users/onetrueobligation/gifts).



> Anatole has all the awareness of a rom-com protagonist because in his head, that's what he is.

It's the second day in a row Elena's taken a lover to her bed without bothering to warn him to steer clear, and it's starting to grate on Anatole's nerves. With a husband like that, he certainly can't begrudge her any pleasure she finds, but honestly, it's getting a bit ridiculous. It's starting to feel as if he can't walk into a room without listening for a moment around the corner to make sure he's not intruding on something intimate.

If he cared to think about the number of times he'd put her through the exact same scenario, Anatole might have a little more sympathy for her. But at the moment, all he can think of is that she and this man are in the study where he'd left his favorite jacket, and how irritated he's going to be if it's ruined.

Finally, the door opens, and Elena sweeps out, not a hair out of place, adjusting her skirts. She barely casts a glance in his direction as she glides down the hall. It's infuriating, really. Even after a rendezvous with her lover, she's unruffled and perfectly dignified. She's a credit to the family name, something he's never bothered to aspire to being.

Anatole stands and moves towards the doorway, determined to retrieve his jacket and make a hasty retreat. There's an opera on this week, and a ball, and perhaps he'll see some pretty young thing at the costume tournament his sister is hosting. It's been far too long since he's had any fun, and since Elena is doing it, why shouldn't he?

Papa won't approve - or, he thinks distantly, his wife either, but that seems rather less important - but really, what's the use in being born looking like him if he isn't allowed to enjoy himself every once in a while?

There's the sound of someone clearing his throat from the corner of the room. Anatole doesn't look up, too busy searching the desk for where he'd left that blasted jacket, and - "Just a minute, mon cher," he says, waving a hand idly in the direction of the voice. "I just need to find something of mine, and then you can go back to practicing your valse, or whatever it is people do after fucking my sister-"

"I beg your pardon?" Fedya says, low and amused, and Anatole stands bolt upright, twin spots of red burning in his cheeks. In his hand, he holds up the jacket, rumpled, but thankfully unstained.

"Found it," he says, and immediately winces.

Fedya leans against the back of the chaise, watching him with an unreadable expression. His lips are twitching like he's about to laugh. That's a good sign. Or is it? Christ.

"I'm not practicing my valse," he says, and that could mean so many things, like he and Elena aren't having an affair, or that they are and he just hates waltzing, or - or anything, really. Anatole swallows hard, his traitorous mouth making the executive decision that the best course of action is to just keep talking.

"I could teach you," he manages to get out, and then can't stop thinking that that sounds exactly like a flirtation. "I mean - I'm sure my sister could also teach you, you know, but Lena says I waltz divinely-" Which isn't even true, because the last time Elena commented on his dancing she said he had all the grace of a wounded water buffalo, which is completely untrue, and just because she actually paid attention in her dance lessons - "But I'm sure you're a perfectly good dancer, anyway-" And he's completely lost track of the metaphor, and Fedya is looking at him like he thinks Anatole is drunk, and Anatole is beginning to wish he was drunk, so he waves the jacket and bows hastily before fleeing the room.

***

That evening, his sister asks him what on earth he did to Fyodor to make him look so perplexed, and Anatole has to restrain himself from stabbing her with a fork.

***

"So, what did you do to Fyodor, anyway?" Elena is standing by the mirror, pinning a few stray curls into her elaborate updo. Anatole rolls over onto his face on her bed and mumbles "Nothing," into the mattress.

It's not that he's surprised Elena has finally elected to take Fedya to her bed. He's exactly the kind of man she likes, rough around the edges, and with something sharp in his eyes, something a little wild. Besides, she doesn't keep people around unless she wants something from them.

Maybe she'll toss Fedya to the side, now that she's had her fun. Unless she's considering a more permanent arrangement. Anatole can't quite explain why the thought of it makes his stomach turn.

"Are you going to keep him?" he asks, turning his head to the side to watch her reflection in the mirror.

Elena purses her lips into a moue of annoyance as she fiddles with her earrings, pressing the post of one against the lobe of her ear. It's one of the set Pierre gave her when they first married, tiny emerald studs. He's got no idea why she still wears them, why she's kept them at all.

"Why?" She puts the earring in and fastens the clasp, then reaches for her compact. "Are you afraid I'm going to purloin your pet cardsharp? Afraid he won't be able to take back your losses at Boston anymore?"

Anatole scowls against the pillow. "Maybe I just don't want you wearing him out. He's not going to be much use to me if you're taking up every ounce of his attention."

"Careful, my love, that sounds like jealousy." Elena's lips curve into a smile as she applies her powder, studying her reflection with a keen eye. 

"I'm not jealous," he sputters, because he _isn't_ , and that's just idiotic, and what does she think she's even saying? Anatole sits up straight to stare at the back of her head. "Jesus, Lena, send him to Siberia if you like. I'm not jealous of you."

She's moved on to lipstick now. Where is she going? She usually wears a bit of makeup, he thinks, but not usually as much as this unless she's got plans. The lipstick is dark red, the color of the red wine he'd seen her drinking last night with Fedya. 

"I'm taking Fyodor to the club tonight." She reaches for her fan and pats her updo a few times, testing to see if it'll stay in place. "You're welcome to join us." From her mouth, it sounds like a challenge. 

Anatole leans forward. "Well. If you're inviting me along." He flashes a grin he doesn't feel. "I suppose I have no choice but to accept."

After all, he knows his sister better than anyone. If she's playing games, someone is going to end up getting hurt. Try as he might, he can't convince himself that he doesn't care about the outcome. Someone has to save Fedya from himself before he finds out that Elena is only tugging on his heartstrings.

Her lips, dark as blood, curve upwards into a smile. "Good."

***

The club is hot, and crowded, and although Anatole has dressed in his very best clothes and made sure he's looking every inch the charming young man he's supposed to be, he feels more like a nervous child waiting for punishment. Elena is already hanging off of Fedya's arm, laughing at something he's said, and two drinks ahead of them both. She'll drink more, but she won't get any more out of control than this. She's always known how to hold her liquor.

Anatole sits across from them both, frowning and biting his lips, watching them with a guarded gaze. Somehow, he's got to make sure that when this all goes south, Fedya doesn't end up getting hurt.

"You're awfully quiet," Elena says, tapping at his wrist with her clipped fingernails. They're short and well kept, which always surprises him. Anatole looks up, resisting the urge to narrow his eyes at her.

"Just thinking about that little French girl you had over last week. What was her name? Marie?" That's a start. "You liked her, eh? I didn't think you'd ever let her leave the house." There. Maybe he can drive a wedge into things that way.

She stiffens a little, and casts a glance over at Fedya, who's far too busy with the glass of vodka he's holding to pay any attention to them at all. Her expression settles back into place, and she leans back against Fedya's arm, dragging her fingertips down his shoulder. Fedya tilts his head to her with a questioning look, but she just smiles.

It's not fair. He was Anatole's friend first. His stomach feels like it's gearing up to a steady boil, and he's never felt more like getting obscenely drunk in his life.

So he does. 

Two hours later, he's dancing rather badly with a girl he's never met in his life, his head and stomach swimming with a pleasant buzzing sensation. The room is warm, but he's abandoned his jacket somewhere and rolled up his shirtsleeves, and besides, no one seems to mind his lack of propriety. Fedya and Elena are - somewhere. He'd stopped keeping track three drinks ago. Or was it four?

Anyway, it hardly seems to matter what they're doing. He can convince himself of that. He's got plenty fun of his own to be having over here. Alone.

It's all going perfectly well until he trips on nothing and starts to pitch backwards, laughing giddily, arms pinwheeling, until a pair of strong hands catch him around the waist. He crashes back against Fedya's chest and immediately goes beet red. 

"I'm fine," he says, a little breathless. Their faces are awfully close together, and it's hard not to think about just leaning in, chasing the wine-flush on Fedya's mouth away. Anatole shakes the thought away and blinks up at him. Where did that come from?

"You're drunk, Anatole." Fedya hauls him upright and brushes him off, eyes narrowing at the girl he'd been dancing with. She scurries away, and Anatole can't even bring himself to protest. "Come here. I'll take you back home."

He's really got no choice but to agree, and if Fedya is with him, he isn't with Elena. That's fine, then. That's just fine.

Anatole allows himself to be guided home with much better grace than he usually would, and if he ends up knocking against Fedya more than he really needs to, well, that's just because it's freezing out and Fedya is so very warm. He isn't sure exactly what this sudden and unfamiliar warmth is blossoming in his chest, or why he wants to lean in and steal Fedya's warmth, but maybe it's the vodka.

His bedroom is at the top of a long staircase. Anatole stares up it from the bottom, then glances over at Fedya, who's looking impatiently at him.

"Come on," he says, and tugs on Anatole's hand. "Come on, Anatole. You ought to be going to bed."

Slowly, stubbornly, he shakes his head. He's certainly not going to make it up those stairs all by himself. It hardly matters that he's done it a thousand times before, and in a worse state than this. Anatole bites his lip. "'S too high," he mumbles.

Fedya sighs. "Anatole, for Christ's sake."

Anatole just shakes his head again, mind made up. He's not going up those stairs without help.

Fedya studies him for a long moment, then seems to relent. "Alright. I'll help you." He puts his hands on Anatole's hips to guide him and starts up the stairs, pushing him gently along.

Somehow, they get up the stairs without Anatole falling down and cracking his head open. He falls unceremoniously against the bed and blinks up at Fedya a few times with bleary eyes. "I'm tired." It feels like something that shouldn't come as such a surprise to him.

Then, Fedya's tugging the blankets over the top of him and moving like he's going towards the door, and Anatole's stomach twists and he can't quite think straight, because Fedya is going to leave, and he's going to be left laying in this bed all by himself, and he doesn't want that, not at all -

"Stay here?" he asks, eyes wide.

Fedya turns back to look at him, expression unreadable. He falters. Scratches the back of his neck. Then his face closes off. "I don't think that's such a good idea."

It doesn't register until he's already gone that the feeling swirling in the pit of his stomach is disappointment.

***

The next morning, Anatole wakes up with a raging headache and the inescapable certainty that he's done something wrong. And for a few minutes, he doesn't even remember what it is, just that it has something to do with Fedya and the fact that he got far too drunk last night.

Then he comes downstairs for breakfast and sees the way Fedya is avoiding his gaze and it all comes back in a rush. 

Anatole sits down heavily at the table. How stupid could he be? Of course Fedya didn't want to stay the night with him. He probably had to get back to Elena. What had he been thinking? Of course Fedya would choose his glittering, gorgeous sister over a drunk, pathetic boy beckoning him from a bed he had no business in.

"Did you sleep well?" Fedya turns the page of his book, studiously avoiding his gaze. _Look at me_ Anatole thinks, and wants to scream it.

"Well enough," he says, and pours himself a cup of coffee. It doesn't make sense, how much this seems to matter to him. Fedya is his friend, for Christ's sake. He's not going to abandon him just because he's sleeping with Elena now. So why does it feel like something is trying to gnaw its way out of his stomach at the thought of them together?

Elena comes in next, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes and pushing her hair back from her face. She spots Anatole's coffee cup and before he's had a chance to take a sip from it, she snatches it up and clutches it to her chest like something sacred.

Anatole frowns.

As she starts to drink his coffee, leaning against Fedya's shoulder, the pieces start to come together in his head. He doesn't like the way Elena is always touching Fedya, touching him like she owns him, like he's hers. He doesn't like the easy way she's laid claim to him. It's only been two days. Or - or how long has this been going on? Have they been sneaking around behind his back this entire time? Has Fedya only been tolerating him for his sister's sake?

Elena leans over to plant a kiss on top of Fedya's head, and it seems suddenly to be the only obvious explanation.

Hurt for reasons he can't begin to understand, Anatole stands, eyes stinging with unshed tears. He bolts for the door, ignoring Elena's calls and the clatter of dishware against the table. 

The smaller parlor seems the safest place to go. Nobody would think to look for him there. They probably won't be looking for him at all. Picturing them sitting down at the table and sipping their coffee, safely entangled in each other, isn't the best idea, but he does it anyway.

The tears come loose, and he slumps down on the sofa, head in his hands, and tries to understand them at all.

Some minutes later, the sound of the door opening startles him out of his thoughts. Anatole stares with wide eyes at Fedya, who takes a hesitant step inside. He walks over to the sofa and sits down beside him, and all the while, Anatole's heart is racing, but he can't move. 

Fedya's come to tell him he's made a fool of himself. He's certain of it.

"So." Fedya starts to speak, then seems to think better of it and sets his hands back down on his lap. He studies them carefully, as if trying to memorize every detail of them. He won't look Anatole in the eye, but he looks as if he'd rather be gearing up for battle than sitting here in Elena's parlor.

"So?" Whatever Fedya came here to say, he needs to say it faster, because the longer he takes, the more inclined Anatole is to think he's only come here to make fun, and if he lets himself believe that for too long, he's liable to cry again. And he won't do that. He can't.

"I've never really had any serious interest in your sister," he says, clenching his hands in the fabric of his clothes. He looks up, meeting Anatole's gaze, and for a moment Anatole is struck breathless by how much fear is in them. Fedya takes a shaky breath. "But I thought you knew that."

It doesn't make any sense. If Fedya isn't interested in Elena, then why - why would he be carrying on with her like this? More to the point, why is Fedya telling him this?

"Yes?" His voice doesn't sound like his own. "And?"

Fedya's mouth tightens, and he folds his hands in his lap like he's afraid of what they'll do if he doesn't keep track of them. "Please don't make me say it."

Anatole just stares. There's only one way to read any of this, and he can't let himself hope for that. But somehow, impossibly, it seems right. Like the answer to a question he hadn't even thought to ask. And Fedya is looking at him like he's terrified of being laughed at, of being sent away. Somehow, he has to reassure him, but it's like the breath has all been knocked out of his lungs.

He has to say something. But he can't think of a single thing to say.

Anatole leans in. What surprises him the least is how natural it feels. Kissing Fedya feels beyond question, feels like something he wished he'd started doing years ago. And judging by the way Fedya's tangling a hand in his hair to pull him in closer, the other arm wrapping possessively around him, he feels about the same.

Finally, he pulls away to grin up at Fedya. They're both mussed and rosy, and there's a smile in the corner of Fedya's mouth that he wants to tease to life. A strange warmth bubbles up in his chest. So this is the answer to all the questions.

"So," Fedya says, and the smile tugs the corner of his mouth upwards.

Anatole laughs delightedly. "So," he says, and pulls him in for another kiss.

***

The next night at the opera, Anatole sees a pretty girl in white, and hardly notices.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Christmas! I hope you like what this turned into, and that you have a great holiday and birthday!


End file.
